Forever and for Always
by Kaslyna
Summary: Has nothing to do with the song. Rated 'T' for now. Idea from Alana's pregnancy anouncement. Written by me, beta'd by no one. Please enjoy. Mike and Connie in the end of course.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I'm sad. I want to start a new story. LTP-Girl does it. So I will too. But not copy her of course. Angsty and depressing at first, but it'll eventually end Mike/Connie. Their birthdays are the same as Alana and Linus's birthdays because I'm too lazy to change them. Now edited, as per suggestion of ScarletAngelww. Thank you. (:**

**Disclaimer: Law & Order belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC. I own nothing but this plot.**

Three months. Twelve days. Seven hours. And forty-four minutes. If Connie had wanted to, she would have counted the seconds as well. Sixteen seconds.

It had been exactly that long since Mike had told her that he loved her. It had been exactly that long since they had begun dating.

One month. One day. Eighteen hours. And fifty-two minutes. That was how long it had been before Connie admitted she loved Mike, too.

Forty-four days. Eleven hours. And thirty-six minutes. That was how long they had been having sex, almost every night.

_Fourteen hours and twenty-nine minutes_. That was how long it had been since Mike had broken up with Connie. He had said it was too risky to their professional lives.

She sighed and buried her head into her hands. How had this thing gotten so far? He felt guilty, being twelve years older and her boss.

Connie felt his eyes on her. He stood in the doorway of his office.

She could hear him sigh. Anger bubbled deep in her stomach. Before she knew quite what was happening Connie was leaning over her garbage can barfing. When she was sure it was over she stood, eyes downcast, feeling the stares as she dashed towards the ladies room. She washed her tear-stained face and sighed heavily. Another wave of nausea came and Connie leaned over the toilet. When it was over she moaned softly and sank onto the cool, inviting tile, her head resting tiredly against the porcelain.

"Connie?" her head snapped up abruptly at the wary voice of Alexandra Cabot, the sex crimes ADA.

Alex crouched beside Connie and murmured, "What's wrong, sweetie?"

Her thin, cool hand rested on Connie's forehead and she commented, "Well, no fever. That's good."

"He broke up with me," Connie whispered, detached, chocolate brown eyes glazed over.

"Oh," Alex replied, "Shh..."

"He said he was too old for me. Said it was wrong."

Alex awkwardly wrapped her arms around the younger woman, mumbling comforts and trying to calm Connie down as she sobbed.

When it was over Connie stood and brushed the dirt off her skirt. Then she nodded once to Alex and left awkwardly.

Mike says nothing. She says nothing. They sit like that in silence. It irks her.

She sighs and suggests they get back to work. He agrees.

* * *

It has been six days, twenty-two hours, and twelve minutes since their breakup.

Connie sits on the couch. Nervous. She is nervous. She tries to remind herself that it's okay. But truth be told everything is a far cry from okay.

Her arms are folded rigidly across her torso. Her lips are pursed, her eyebrow creased with anxiety.

She has left him a message. _"Mike, we really need to talk. It's personal, and no, it can't wait. Call me back when you can. Connie."_

It was clipped, clinical, professional at most, but it was all she could possibly do with the shock she was feeling.

A little nauseated, Connie drew a deep breath and lifted the stick from the coffee table. She hesitates and peeks.

_Pregnant_, the stick reads in obnoxious pink letters.

Connie exhales, shaking, sobbing. The stick drops to the floor, making no sound.

"Mike," she whispered, "Call me, oh God, please call me, I need you."

* * *

He gets home late. His phone rings, and he glances at the display. Connie. In no mood to talk with her right now, he ignores it, letting the machine pick up her call.

"Mike, we really need to talk," she sounds cold, distant, detached, and then continues, a little jumpy-sounding, "It's personal, and no, it can't wait. Call me back when you can-" She pauses, not sure how to finish, then settles with a whisper of her name, "Connie."

He groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. Then the phone rings again. He knows it is her and lets the machine pick it up again.

"Mike, dammit! Pick up your fucking phone! We need to talk right _now_, Mike, face-to-face. I think... I think I need to tell you in person."

The third message comes twenty-six minutes later.

"Okay, Mike. Fine, be that way. Ignore me. But it's important, really. I mean it. I'm going to the hospital tomorrow. Mercy General, and don't bother to come. But as my _boss_-" acid coats the word, "You deserve to know. More details tomorrow."

Anxiety creeps into the pit of his stomach, but he calls her back and says she can have the day off. She tells him they'll need to talk soon.

He sighs and buries his head in his hands. What a mess. What a royal, fucking _disaster_.

* * *

Connie's appointment is brief. Her OB/GYN, Doctor Carrie Welsh, is kind and sympathetic as she confirms that Connie is indeed, pregnant. Carrie hugs her as she leaves. They have known each other since grade school, though they had never really been close. Connie was in that world of middle class families, living in a small brownstone with her older brother, Ricardo, her younger sister, Marisol, her parents, and her aunt, Ronnie, who was as close as close could be to Connie. Carrie had been one of the rich kids.

She is snapped abruptly out of her reverie by reality. She reluctantly says goodbye and heads home. She leaves Mike another message.

She has no choice but to be blunt.

* * *

She calls again. He ignores her, _again_.

"Mike, it's Connie again. I saw the doctor. Everything is okay. But Mike, I, uh, I need to tell you something really, _really_ important, and I quite frankly am scared shitless right now. Mike... I'm pregnant. I hate telling you this over the phone. But you've ignored me."

He snatches the phone up and snaps, "Connie?"

"Mike," she sighs.

"You're pregnant?" he demands.

"Why, yes, Captain Obvious," her every word drips sarcasm.

"We need to talk."

"How about that bakery near the 2-7 tomorrow at around nine in the morning?"

"Sounds fine."

"Good. See ya there, Mike."

"Sleep well, Connie."

A pause, then: "I miss you, Mike. I still love you. You broke my heart."

Then he hangs up, shaking, unable to do anything else.

_Fuck, fuck, FUCK!_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Second chapter. :D Lyrics are to Enya's Only Time. It's amazing if you have not heard it. :D**

**Disclaimer: Law & Order belongs to Dick Wolf and NBC. I own nothing but the dang plot. :/**

Connie glances at the clock. Five in the morning. She groans and rolls onto her back. Stares at the ceiling. She counts the cracks. Listens to the hushed voices of her next door neighbors as they prepare to make love.

"Some people are trying to _sleep_, you know," she mumbles halfheartedly, yawning as she flips to her side and yanks a pillow over her head.

She huffs impatiently and swings her legs over the side of the bed. She pads into the kitchen and pulls out a box of Cheerios and some milk. She eats a little, uses the bathroom, pukes, and tries unsuccessfully again to fall asleep.

Instead she picks up her book and reads, the radio on.

_"Who can say if you love grows, as your heart chose? Only time..."_

Connie changes the station and laughs bitterly at the DJ's. Why was it that the radio played songs that reflected her mood?

The hours are slow. Eventually she changes and packs her briefcase. Grabbing her coat and purse she heads out. The fresh air is nice on her walk to the bakery. She slides into a booth and looks out at the rain. She smiles, a little sad. Then Mike shows up and sits across from her. The waitress comes and they order. It is then that they must tackle the elephant in the room.

Or, rather, the baby that grows inside of Connie. Less than two inches long. A shrimp, almost literally.

"Hello," he says, and she looks up.

"Hey," she smiles shyly.

"How far are you?" he asks bluntly.

She sighs then tells him, "About seven weeks now."

"Oh," he nodded, "Um..."

"I wasn't on the pill then," she admits, sheepish.

"Ah."

"Yeah..." her voice falters and she sighs, frustrated.

"Your food," the waitress says, all but throwing their food at them.

They eat, and Mike watches her. She picks at the food, lips pursed, pushing it around the plate. Sensing his gaze, she sends him a brief, reassuring smile and eats, knowing full well she will regret it later when she heaving up her guts, but not wishing to make him anxious.

"Not too hungry," she explains, shrugging.

"Oh," he nods.

There is yet another awkward silence. She sighs.

"Mike..." she begins.

"Connie," he whispers, "Consuela."

She shivers involuntarily, cheeks flushing at the use of her full name. _Damn him!_

"I'm keeping this baby," she says in a firm, sure tone.

"I just," he sighed, shaking his head, as if to clear the swarm of jumbled thoughts, "I just need some time to think, Connie. Um, you know, see what I want to do. Would you mind... giving me a few days? I just need time to process all of this."

She huffs and nods, replying, "Okay, fine. Saturday."

He smiles, and she rolls her eyes, sighs, and smiles resignedly back at him.

They finish, and Mike pays. Then they leave. Connie, who had walked the six blocks in the then-drizzle, frowns as they step outside. It's now pouring.

"Mind giving me a lift? I walked."

"Not at all," he responds, guiding her gently, as if she is fragile, to his car.

The car ride is comfortable; the heat is on low, and the radio softly plays some pop song or another that shall soon be forgotten by most. Connie involuntarily lets her hand flutter to her stomach, closing her eyes. She yawns and Mike looks over at her. He feels more than a little guilty.

Soon, however, they are at One Hogan Place, and he gently shakes her awake.

"Sorry," she blushes.

He smiles in response and helps her out of the car, leading her towards the building. They sign in quickly and head up to the tenth floor. Mike makes sure Connie is comfortable in his office, assuring her that he'll be back soon (if all goes well; otherwise she'll most likely be identifying him on a slab in Rodgers' morgue) and heads to Jack's office. He knocks timidly, ignoring his secretary, Ida. Ida ignores him, usually, so it's just as well.

"Yes?" Jack McCoy's gruff voice answers.

"Jack," Mike says, "Can we talk?"

Jack swings the door open, and his face softens almost immediately. His previous sharpness melts away to reveal pity for the younger man. He allows him to enter. Jack had known about Mike and Connie dating, and he knew how Mike had broken things off with Connie. He'd heard it from her. The woman who was a daughter to him in more ways than Rebecca ever could be, he mused.

"What is it?" he asks calmly sinking into the chair behind the desk. Mike's features are haggard and confused, like a lost boy.

"It's about Connie," he begins, slowly sitting on the couch, never daring to break eye contact with the District Attorney, lest he have a gun or knife or _something_ hidden in the office.

"Oh?" he raises an eyebrow, amusement playing in his craggy features.

"About... us," he amends, softly, a little hesitantly. Jack chuckles, finding Mike's fear of him a tad bit funny.

Mike smiles nervously and Jack tells him to go on, he won't bite. Still nervous, Mike blurts out, "Jack, Connie's pregnant."

"Did I just hear you right?" he asks, and Mike nods. Jack sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

"What should I do?" he asked, whispering now.

"Um, well. Why isn't she here with you?" he asks, quirking his eyebrows again.

"She, uh, she's a little confused, and I just needed to talk to someone about this. Someone with a little more experience than me," he explains.

_The sound of someone retching and moaning is what wakes him. He hurries to the bathroom, where he finds her crouching over the toilet, breathing unevenly..._

"Jack?" Mike's voice brings him to reality.

He smiles sadly.

"I'm sorry," he says.

Mike sighs, stands, thanks him, and leaves.

* * *

Connie is glancing over a file when he returns. She is obviously deep in thought.

Without looking up she says, "Johnny Rawlings case. You know, the guy who shot his mistress executioner-style."

He wonders if they have developed some sort of ESP, then responds, "Ah. How're we doing?"

"Well, he claims he was with this prostitute, Marylou March. Definitely a street name. She's gone AWOL; detectives put an APB on her."

"Okay," he says, sitting beside her.

She smells his scent, and the memory of his hands ghosting over her fill her mind. She feels ill again and tries not to puke by closing her eyes. However, the smell and proximity of Mike, as well as the smell of stale coffee, rotting takeout, and the blaring sounds of some rap station is certainly _not_ helping matters, and soon Connie is barfing into the trashcan, unable to make the bathroom. She feels his hands pulling the hair off her face and it only makes it worse. As if it's not already humiliating enough. She feels the eyes of secretaries and ADA's alike on her and she groans.

"Come on, people. Shoo!" Mike growls, and with a few mutters, the crowd disperses.

"Thanks," she responds in a hoarse, exhausted whisper. Her voice is slightly raspy.

He eases her onto the couch and goes to get her some water, taking the trashcan to empty. She gratefully accepts the water.

"Thank you, Mike," she says, voice clearer.

"No problem," he nods, civilly, sitting back at his desk, "Just rest. I'll cover for you."

"Thank you," she whispers weakly, too tired to argue.

"Gladly," he chuckles humorlessly, then sighs and gets back to work.

A few minutes later he hears a small, soft, feminine snore and looks at Connie, who is asleep. He smiles, grabbing a blanket from the rack where his suits hang. He carefully drapes it over her small, delicate frame, leaning down slowly and kissing her forehead. She smiles a little in sleep, snuggling into the welcomed warmth of the blanket.

Mike sits at his desk and works. Occasionally, he will look and see her asleep, or hear her mumble something, and he smiles. He loves her.

The weight of the realization is like a bolt of lightning, and he groans quietly. This certainly was _not_ the first time Micheal Cutter had screwed up (and it would also most certainly _not_ be the last time) but it was the worst, by far.

_I screwed up._


End file.
